Passing the Torch
by TheAsset6
Summary: Some days, Bucky couldn't help feeling his age. Maybe that was why he couldn't blame Steve for what he was about to do. [Contains major Endgame spoilers.]


**A/N: ****Welcome! If you've followed my works, then you know what time it is: post-movie comforting content. I've been adding my own "deleted scenes" following a movie release since Civil War, and this is no exception. The end of Endgame was bittersweet to me, and seeing it this way helps me find the closure I needed. I hope that you enjoy it, too. ****Also, if you are following "Dead Alive," the next chapter is about half edited and nearly prepared for posting!**

Passing the Torch

Some days, Bucky couldn't help feeling his age. There were the typical reminders, from the technology that was so vastly different from what he'd grown up with to the metal appendage that clamped down on his shoulder more comfortably than the one he'd been given by Hydra. He was a hundred years old—even older now that he had apparently lost another five years in the literal blink of an eye. While the bastardized serum Zola had tested on him had kept his body from realizing it, his mind was another matter.

A generation was dying off. Another moved in to take its place.

And yet, despite all he'd done to deserve death, Bucky lived on. He would have considered it a curse if it hadn't provided him with the opportunity to atone for all the wounds he'd inflicted.

Steve wasn't like that, though. Contrary to Bucky's circumstances, his hands were clean. He'd sacrificed his life countless times, in many different contexts, in order to protect a world that had turned on him when he no longer fit their vision of what being a hero entailed. He'd fought their war and every other one since. He'd bested humans and aliens and every foul thing in between. If Bucky felt old, then there was no way Steve didn't feel ancient after all he'd accomplished.

That was how he was able to predict what Steve would say before the words left his mouth.

"You're not coming back."

It wasn't a question, and Steve didn't insult his intelligence by pretending that it was. As they stood outside the Starks' cabin and stared at the lake where they'd said their goodbyes to the man who'd had every right to kill Bucky years ago, he had no choice but to prepare himself for another. It peered out at him from behind Steve's eyes, clear as day. He didn't try to hide it; they'd never kept secrets from each other, not even when they were kids. While he wasn't the worst liar in the world, there simply wasn't any point. Bucky knew him as well as he knew himself, perhaps better most days. His silence was all the response Bucky needed, and he nodded his head in immediate acceptance even as a knot formed in his chest.

"You planning to tell anyone else?"

Shaking his head, Steve finally found his voice to reply, "No. They'd just try to stop me."

"And you think I won't?"

"I don't know. Will you?"

As if he had to ask. They both knew the answer, and the amused quirk of Steve's eyebrow confirmed it.

"Hell no," Bucky chuckled. "You're finally getting out of the war. That's all I wanted anyway."

Steve didn't say anything for a long moment, his eyes growing distant, reaching out to a memory that was as fresh in Bucky's mind as it had to be in his. The night before he'd left for England, the last night they'd spent beneath the same stars as just _Steve_ and _Bucky_, he'd tried in vain to convince Steve that he should stay home—stop trying to enlist—stop _tempting fate_. If he had to go and fight for his country, then he wanted to know that his best friend was safely enjoying the fruits of his labor. Obviously, it hadn't gone that way. Instead, Steve's thirst to prove himself had blossomed into a responsibility to safeguard the rest of the world, and he'd risen to the occasion like the hero he always had been. But that also meant that the war had never ended—not for him.

It wasn't often that Bucky could relate to the person he used to be before Hydra and the army had irrevocably changed him, but the one constant he'd shared with that guy over the years was his desire to see Steve finally come home from the war.

Bucky had almost managed it. His life in Wakanda was the closest thing to retirement that he figured he'd ever get. Farming had its own set of stressors, yet the monotonous tedium relaxed him. In the nearly two years after Shuri had gotten the last of Hydra's programming out of his head, there had been no more fighting. No more battles to be won. No more guns to be cocked, scopes to be peered through, or bullets to be fired. There was simply _life_, albeit one that was extremely different from what he'd ever have expected or felt that he'd earned.

All the while, Steve had traveled the world being _Steve_. Captain America was a fugitive, and every government around the globe was ordered to detain him if they caught a whiff of his presence, so Steve Rogers was all he could be. Regardless, his mission was the same: his war went on as Bucky gladly accepted his discharge.

Until Steve needed him, of course. Bucky would always fight for Steve, even if it meant giving up everything he'd gained. Even if it meant giving up his life.

Steve _was_ his war. At least, he had been.

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Steve bumped Bucky's flesh shoulder with his own and inquired, "What about you?"

Bucky frowned at him. "What _about_ me?"

It was a testament to how well Steve knew him that he had the grace to hesitate before plowing ahead, "You could come too. We have enough of Pym's particle to send us bo—"

"No," Bucky rebuffed him immediately, tearing his gaze away to glare sightlessly into the distance. All of a sudden, the only color he could see was red. "I couldn't do it."

"Do what?" asked Steve even though it was obvious that he'd already guessed the answer.

"Sit by and watch."

He didn't have to clarify. The truth spoke for itself, and it wasn't pretty. What was there for him in the past besides reliving everything that he'd done, just as helpless to stop it the second time as the first? There was no changing the past, not really. The guy in the cape had made that pretty clear when Scott had inundated him with questions about how the Time Stone worked. It was the source of their equilibrium; even the Avengers' foray into the past wouldn't alter what was meant to happen. Steve's decision wouldn't change the course of the present or future, because if he did what Bucky knew he was planning, it would become part of the grand design of the universe without error or paradox. For him, that would be no problem. He'd live his life the way he should have had the chance to long ago.

For Bucky, it would be a nightmare. All that death, all that destruction—all by his hands. And there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't change the past, which meant sitting around and watching the terror begin again. Seeing the monster he'd become and being utterly unable to do a damn thing about it.

That wasn't closure. It was _torture_, and Bucky had had enough of that to last ten lifetimes.

Fortunately, Steve didn't make him put his reasons into words, not that Bucky had expected him to. The newfound tinge of sadness in his best friend's eyes brought a very different sentiment to his lips instead, and Bucky smirked slightly when he added, "Besides, three's a crowd."

There was that smile. It emerged like the sun from behind a cloud, and although it didn't wipe the sorrow away entirely, the mood brightened considerably. That would have to do for now.

"Yeah, I guess you have a point." Steve sighed. "She'll already have enough to say. I told her I wouldn't be late."

Bucky couldn't help but grin at that, feeling more like the kid who'd once sat drinking in a London pub than he had in decades. "You think she'll even take you back? You _did_ choose crashing a plane over a dance."

Barking a laugh, Steve retorted, "You know, something tells me she might cut me some slack about that."

"You don't deserve her, pal."

"No, I don't."

It wasn't true—if anything, Bucky would be hard-pressed to find someone he estimated was worthy of _Steve's_ affections. Still, he got a chuckle out of the idea. Peggy Carter was one hell of a woman. She was strong, independent, bullheaded. To put it plainly, she was everything that Steve admired and so much more. Both of them had battled against the odds in their own ways and come out on top; the fact that their time together had been cut so tragically short was perhaps the greatest injustice Bucky had ever seen. They deserved better than that. With the help of the quantum realm, they might even get it.

It simply meant saying goodbye. That couldn't be too hard, could it?

Just like that, the levity that had lifted their spirits a moment ago evaporated, the heavy inevitability of what would happen tomorrow when Steve left to return the stones settling over them. Sometimes, it seemed like all Bucky did was say goodbye.

Whether it was because of their age or merely the synchronicity they'd perfected, he could tell that Steve felt the same. It was written in the shallow lines of his face when he murmured, "I'll miss you, Buck."

A minute passed where all he could do was nod, and when he finally managed to choke out, "Me too," he couldn't help the slight hitch in his breath.

"Don't worry. You won't have _time_ to."

Steve's hand on his shoulder wasn't unexpected, but his words stuck in Bucky's mind even as he moved to change the subject.

"There's something else I wanted to talk to you about."

Because of course his impending departure wasn't enough. If it weren't for that fact, Bucky would have been tempted to ask what the hell he'd meant about not having time to miss him. It was one thing when he was busy being poked and prodded by Zola and his merry band of creeps; he couldn't exactly miss what he didn't know he'd lost. (The vacant chasm that had constantly niggled at the back of his mind didn't count.) Now wasn't the moment to split hairs or argue over semantics, however. Bucky had realized this would be their last day together the instant Steve asked to speak with him privately. The last thing he wanted was for it to be marred by unhappy memories.

So, swallowing the lump in his throat, he muttered, "What's that?"

There was a pause, and for a second, it appeared that Steve wasn't sure how to approach the subject. Eventually, in true _Steve_ fashion, he threw caution to the wind and asserted, "I may not need to be Captain America anymore, but that doesn't mean the world doesn't _need_ a Captain America."

His gaze turned shrewd, and Bucky's stomach sank towards his shoes.

"No way. Uh-uh."

"Come on, Buck."

"Not gonna happen."

"Why not?"

"Steve," sighed Bucky with a morose smile. Leave it to this idiot not to consider the implications of turning the Winter Soldier into the next star-spangled man. "The guy holding that shield can't have the blood on his hands that I do. You know that."

Stubbornly shaking his head, Steve countered, "None of that was yo—"

"My fault," Bucky interrupted him. "I know. But it was still _me_."

Not even Captain America could argue with that. Ultimately, it didn't matter who had been standing behind him so long as he was the one pulling the trigger. There was evidence all around them, and it wouldn't disappear just because Steve wanted it to. Like it or not, Bucky was a murderer. He'd manufactured accidents. He'd killed from the shadows. He'd staged assassinations and framed scapegoats. He'd broken every single law in the international codes of warfare and then some; by all accounts, he should have been rotting away in the depths of the Raft, never to be seen or heard from again. If there were any real justice in this world, he would be. Then again, if there were any real justice in this world, neither he nor Steve would be here right _now _to have this discussion. His just deserts notwithstanding, it wasn't feasible for someone like him to bear the mantle. Sure, maybe he'd earned it, but he certainly wasn't _worthy_.

Someone else, however, _was_.

Taking a deep breath and tamping down the sensation that accompanied having to make this decision in the first place, Bucky continued before Steve had a chance to recover. "If you're looking for a new Captain America, I think I know just the guy."

There was a beat of silence, then Steve agreed, "Yeah. I think we both do."

"He's the right choice, Steve."

"You're right. He is."

_…__That was easy. Too easy._

So, of course, there was a caveat.

"But he'll need someone to watch his back," added Steve, looking askance at him. "To be there for him."

Somehow, Bucky figured he should have seen that coming. This was Steve he was talking about, after all. As such, there was a lot more to what he was requesting than he let on. It wasn't only his successor he was concerned about. He was a force to be reckoned with in his own right and, while he could definitely benefit from some backup, it wasn't like his survival depended on it. No, this was about more than having someone's six. This was how Steve made sure both of them were taken care of once he was gone.

Touching. Depressing, but touching. And to think that it had always been Bucky's job to worry after Steve's well-being rather than the other way around.

_Looks like the tables have turned._

Bucky's smile came easier this time, as did his promise: "Now _that_ sounds like a job for the Winter Soldier."

That was apparently what Steve was hoping to hear, because his expression cleared right away, leaving an aura of peace in its wake that had Bucky's insides twisting at the same time as he internally acknowledged that this was the right path—it _had _to be if it made Steve happy for a change. God knew he deserved it.

At least, that was what Bucky would have said before the smart ass went and joked, "You sure? It'll mean following Captain America into the jaws of death."

Snorting, he sarcastically shot back, "So, nothing new, then."

"Guess not." Steve lapsed into silence only for a moment, his tone more contemplative when he murmured, "Do you ever wonder what it would've been like?"

"What, if you'd done what I said and stayed home?" clarified Bucky.

"Yeah."

"No."

Steve didn't quite look surprised, but his puzzlement was clear. "Really?"

"Don't have to wonder when I already know." Bucky shrugged a shoulder, watching the light dance on the surface of the lake. It wasn't the same as Wakanda, but it made him feel at peace nevertheless.

"You do?"

"Sure. I would've died in some Hydra lab, and you'd have gotten your face busted in a back alley."

Something like a laugh reverberated through Steve's chest as he glumly admitted, "Yeah, you're probably right."

"If it had to be _that_ or _this_…" Bucky trailed off momentarily, gesturing towards the water and the gradually westering sun beyond it. "I don't know. Maybe this isn't so bad."

"No, it's not," sighed Steve. That somber quality hadn't vanished entirely, but as he leaned forward to rest his elbows against the rail, Bucky couldn't help hoping that maybe he'd said what Steve needed to hear. It was a comforting notion, albeit slightly. If he was sending Steve on a one-way trip to the past in the morning, then he didn't want him to have any regrets about what he'd be leaving behind.

And he didn't. Bucky could tell that much when Steve turned toward him, his smile thin yet genuine, and verbalized exactly what he was thinking: "We've been pretty lucky, huh?"

Bucky nodded. A few years ago, he wouldn't have agreed. How could he after all he'd done? But there was also no denying that he'd been given the gift of time either. He'd never erase the mistakes he'd made or the crimes he'd committed, willingly or otherwise. Even so, he was still breathing and able to make up for it to the greatest extent he could. That had to count for something.

"Yeah, we have. Right up till the end of the line."

Oddly enough, that made Steve's grin widen.

"We're not there yet, Buck."

The herculean effort it took not to observe that that was precisely what they were facing could have earned Bucky a medal. Steve's optimism was infectious, however, so he didn't mention it. Sometimes, platitudes were more reassuring than reality.

That, in any case, was what he anticipated the next day. Embracing his best friend one last time, sending him off with a smile, not spilling the beans to Sam and Bruce that they shouldn't bother counting down to Steve's return—it all settled in his stomach with a sense of finality it was difficult to ignore.

Then he saw it—saw _him_—and realized what Steve had been talking about. This wasn't the end of the line. Not by a long shot.

There was still Sam, tentatively taking the shield with both its original wielder's blessing and his own.

There was still Captain America, living on in a legacy that had transcended time and space.

There was still Bucky and Steve, even if they weren't the same kids they used to be. Hell, even if they weren't the same people they'd been ten seconds ago.

And when Sam approached him, his inheritance shining brightly like a beacon of hope, it felt _right_ to ask, "Where to now, Cap?"

The title visibly threw him for a second, but when the reality of the situation sank in, Sam's shoulder's straightened as though he was already wearing the uniform.

"Wherever people need us," he replied with firm determination that Bucky had to admire.

"When do we start?"

"We just did."

With that, he clapped a hand to Bucky's metal shoulder and stepped past him towards where Bruce was still attempting to decipher what had seemingly gone wrong with his fancy, useless apparatus. True to his word, Bucky followed, his eyes itching to capture one final glance at the brother that had been his past, present and future. He didn't let them, though. He didn't have to see Steve's face to know that he was there—that he would _always_ be there—because their locations in the universe or time itself didn't matter. The ties that bound them together were so much stronger than that. They would always be together.

There _was_ no end of the line.


End file.
